


Fare Thee Well

by Blink_Blue



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6841516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blink_Blue/pseuds/Blink_Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after Bucky goes in cryostasis in Wakanda, he is defrosted. From there, he and T'Challa have a complicated relationship as one begins to heal from years of torture and brainwashing, while the other struggles to assume the mantle his father left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fare Thee Well

**Author's Note:**

> I've never actually read the comics, so apologies because I'm sure my portrayal of Wakanda is completely off kilter. But I loved these two characters in Cap3, so I had to attempt a fic showcasing what their relationship might be like.

The machines beep loudly around the room, echoing sentiments of life being brought back into still, frozen flesh. Air colder than ice is torn from his lungs and he gasps, painfully loud, like a wretched cry spilling from his lips. He twitches and jolts, muscles not quite understanding commands as nerves have to recall how to transmit signals. There’s frozen specks of frost on his lashes, heavy as he opens his eyes. 

There are men touching him, warm hands on his arm and torso as they undo the straps holding him in place, freeing him from his frozen prison. This is familiar to him at least.

Protocol dictates that he should be afraid. Muscle memory tells him that pain will come next. He’ll be thrown into the chair. Wiped. And then he will only know pain.

But he’s slowly lifted from his position in the chamber with a gentleness that he’s not used to. His head falls forward, hair limp in his face, and his limbs useless until he regains his strength. He’s cold. So very, _very_ cold. 

They settle him onto an inclined bed, and he’s immediately covered in a thick, warm blanket. The shivers that rack his body eventually settle into soft tremors. The initial confusion he’s used to. It always takes a while to get the blood moving and the brain cells functioning properly again. He thinks he knows what’s coming next. So he waits for the pain.

But then he remembers.

Steve. 

Steve, following two years of freedom. Two years out of HYDRA’s grasp, constantly on the run, trying to remember how to be a person again. And then it ended. And Steve nearly tore the world apart for him. Steve, who promised he would be safe and protected.

“Mr. Barnes?”

He looks up at the sound of his name. He thinks it’s a little weird to have a name. He blinks heavily, shaking the haze from his head. _Asset. Weapon. Thing._

No.

Not anymore.

There’s a familiar face watching him. He struggles to remember, and slowly things become clear again. “T’Challa,” he rasps, his voice hoarse and dry as his flesh continues to warm and he starts to feel like a human again. 

The other man grins softly at him and he steps forward until he’s next to the bed. “Welcome back, Mr. Barnes. How are you feeling?”

That’s not a question he’s ever heard immediately after being thawed. 

“Cold,” he murmurs obviously. His single arm pulls the thick blanket up higher around himself, keeping the warmth in. He carefully watches the other man, who’s dressed in casual Wakandan garments--well, casual for a King--and not his vibranium panther suit. So he’s not afraid, Bucky surmises. He’s not preparing for a fight. And if T’Challa doesn’t see him as a threat, it can only mean their scientists were successful.

“Say the words,” Bucky whispers, swallowing the hard lump in his throat. “Say them.”

T’Challa purses his lips. He immediately knows what he means. His face softens, and he even leans down a bit towards the medical bed. “There’s no need, Mr. Barnes. And there’s no need for you to worry any longer. The words are gone, my best scientists who worked on you have assured me of it. The words will do nothing now.”

Bucky shakes his head vehemently. That’s not good enough for him. Not when he’s been used as a dangerous weapon for most of the past century. He’s a ticking time bomb, and he _needs_ to know he’s been defused. “I need to know,” he grits through his teeth.

T’Challa doesn’t reply for a moment. Finally, he sighs softly and nods. He gestures behind him to a man standing near medical equipment on the other side of the room. 

Bucky braces himself as he watches him, eyes narrowed. The fear and anticipation twitch in his veins, his heart clenches tightly in his chest... and nothing’s even happened yet. But the muscle memory is still there. His breath quickens and his hand clenches into a fist around the blanket, none of which go unnoticed by T’Challa. 

And then it begins.

_желание (longing)_

_He painfully forces his eyes shut as flashes begin in his mind._

_ржaвый (rusted)_

_The darkest of memories find their way to the surface. Horrible memories that he’d give anything to forget._

_семнадцать (seventeen)  
_

_There are screams in his head. His own._

_рассвет (daybreak)_

_The fear of never knowing happiness again painfully seeps into his chest, suffocating him, pushing him under the surface._

_печь (furnace)_

_A burning rage gnaws at him. White, hot anger._

_девять (nine)_

_Memories of his own torture claw viciously in his mind. He grips his head, face scrunched in pain, grips a fistful of hair hard enough to nearly tear it out._

_добросердечный (benign)_

_He wants to scream. He can’t tell... maybe he is screaming._

_возвращение на родину (homecoming)_

_What is home?_

_один (one)_

_Obey._

_грузовой вагон (freight car)_

He gasps, eyes forced wide open when it’s over. He’s gasping and trembling, shaking all over, and drenched in sweat. When he looks up, T’Challa is watching him carefully, concern written all over his face. But his arms are stiff by his sides, poised for combat if necessary.

It’s not.

“Mr. Barnes?”

“I--I’m fine,” he says shakily, though it’s clear that he’s not. He blinks a few times quickly, and suddenly realizes there are tear tracks down his face. He hastily wipes them away. He’s still himself. He’s not the asset. He’s not the Winter Soldier. The trigger words HYDRA implanted are gone. But that doesn’t mean he’s not haunted by them. 

It seems they may haunt him the rest of his life. 

“I’m fine,” he whispers again. Perhaps more to himself than anyone else. He gives his head a shake, trying to clear the haze of screams, pain, and agony. “How--how long has it been?” He suddenly asks. 

“Not long,” T’Challa replies. “Two months.”

Bucky’s eyes widen in shock. “That’s it?” He gasps. “Two months?! That’s all it took to disable _decades_ of programming?!”

T’Challa’s lips twitch into a smirk and he tilts his head slightly the side, clearly humored at the other man’s surprise. “Do not underestimate Wakanda’s brilliance in medicine and technology. You’ll find we’re a little different than what you’re used to, in the rest of the world.”

Bucky continues to stare, slack jawed in shock. He’s used to years passing between defrosts, not months. Two months is barely any time at all. 

“Does... does Steve know?”

T’Challa shakes his head. “Captain Rogers is not aware you are awake. He placed your care in my hands and I took liberties of handling your treatment.”

Bucky nods slowly. He can’t quite understand the feeling of relief in him, knowing that Steve’s not here, that he doesn’t know, that he’s not about to burst through those doors with concern etched into every fiber of his being. 

He couldn’t handle that right now.

“Would you like me to contact him for you?”

“No,” Bucky says quickly. “No, I... I don’t want him to know... not yet. Please don’t tell him.”

T’Challa furrows his brow. “He is your friend,” he says simply. “And your friend would like to know you are well.”

 _After everything he’s done for you._ The rest of the words go unspoken, but Bucky still hears them.

“I’m not ready,” he says softly, shaking his head. He looks up at the other man, his eyes silently pleading. “Don’t tell Steve, not yet. I’m just not ready to face him. Please.” Steve makes him feel like his world has been turned on its side, and no matter how hard he tries, he’d sink into the ground, drowning and gasping for air. He can’t do it yet. 

After a moment of consideration, T’Challa finally nods in agreement. “You are still a wanted man,” he says softly. “You will stay here, in Wakanda. And I will look after your rehabilitation. We have the best doctors in the world. You will be well looked after.”

“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs as relief floods him. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll be safe in Wakanda. And more importantly, others will be safe from him, and he won’t be able to hurt anyone, ever again. That’s all he really wants. 

“My engineers have made several prototypes for your new arm. We’d like you to test them out, make sure they’re a good fit before the final model is completed.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at the statement, spoken so casually without a hint of malicious intent. “You built me an arm?” He asks slowly.

“We built you a much better arm. Makes your old one look like a child’s toy.” 

His wariness must be clear on his face, because T’Challa tilts his head in confusion. “You are not content with this?” He clearly expected a more eager response. A more grateful one, perhaps.

“The last people who made me an arm used me against my will, to carry out their wishes for seven _decades._ They made me into the most feared assassin of the century. So excuse me if I’m not ecstatic about it,” he growls.

T’Challa raises his head in understanding. Behind him, a woman shuffles in her place as she huffs under her breath. Bucky thinks she probably didn’t take too kindly to his reluctance. 

But T’Challa doesn’t seem offended. “You don’t trust me,” he states simply.

Bucky tears his eyes away from the woman glaring daggers at him, and turns to the king. “Steve trusts you,” he says. “And I trust him.” How strange, he thinks to himself, that even after all this time away from HYDRA, he’s still not making decisions or choices on his own. Sometimes it feels like not much has changed since he escaped his captors. 

“If you trust him, why is he not here?”

Bucky purses his lips and doesn’t respond. He’s not about to pour his feelings out in front of a stranger when he can barely admit them to himself. 

“We are not HYDRA and we will not hurt you,” T’Challa says softly. “If your life weren’t in danger, I’d say you’re free to go anytime you’d like. But the truth is, the safest place for you is here. We have the best doctors in the world to look after you. Not just physically, but mentally as well. After what you’ve been through, no one would look down on you for seeking help. This is a safe place, Mr. Barnes.”

He should feel grateful for the hospitality. T’Challa is offering more than anyone else has in his life. He takes a shaky breath, and underneath the sheet, his hand reaches up to feel the metal shoulder that’s still fused to his skin. The phantom pain of the missing limb weighs heavily on him. It’ll feel good to get the arm back. He blinks heavily and eventually nods his head in agreement.

“I have some matters to attend to,” T’Challa says with a soft smile. “Get some rest, my people will after you. And when you feel up to it, take a walk around. See what Wakanda has to offer.”

Bucky’s eyes follow closely as the man leaves the room. The doors aren’t the only thing that part for him, as everyone in the room steps aside to make a path for their king.

The woman who’d sent him scathing glares hangs behind long enough to speak. “You’d do well to remember your manners in front of the _the king_ ,” she spits, before turning on her heel and leaving the room.

Bucky blinks dumbly after her exit. The scientists continue to bustle around the room, checking his vitals and asking him questions every so often in accented English. He sighs softly as the men work around him. T’Challa’s a good man. He’s been around enough bad men to know the difference. He should be grateful the monarch offered him sanctuary in the world’s most well protected, impenetrable nation. 

He could easily have been offended. Maybe he was, and he’s just good at hiding it. Bucky makes a note in his mind to seek him out later and properly thank him for his kindness.

His thoughts wander to another man who’d done more for him than he could’ve ever asked for. Steve. Steve who started another war for him. Was willing to go against his friends--people he considered family--for him. Who would stay by his side, through thick and thin, never asking for anything more than his friendship. He knows in his heart that he doesn’t deserve that either. 

Not after what he’s done. He can’t even count the number of bodies he’s left behind him. And to cause Steve to lose so much, his family, his friends, his whole  _life..._ and he knows without a doubt in his mind that Steve would willingly lay down his life for him. The thought terrifies him to his very core. That Steve is willing to go to such lengths for him, it might end up costing him his own life. What could he possibly have to offer that is worth so much?

This is why he can’t face Steve, not yet, and possibly not ever. This is why he had stayed away for two years. Because he’s a danger and a threat to everyone around him. Because the guilt of what he’s done haunts every second of his life. Because Steve doesn’t deserve to be around someone like him. 

Bucky closes his eyes, as exhaustion weighs heavy on his bones. He’ll need some time to fully recover from cryostasis. Thankfully this time, there are no men pushing him into a chair, molding his mind to their will, and his body for their use.

As usual, his dreams are full of memories from the past. Sometimes they’re good dreams. He’ll dream of Steve, laughing and smiling, their arms wrapped around the other’s shoulders, coming down from the thrill of a ride at Coney Island. Or that time he spent his last dollar buying ice cream for the two of them on a hot summer day. Though more often than not, his dreams are filled with the screams of his victims. He sees their faces behind his eyelids. He remembers every detail, to the second their pulse stops and the light fades from their eyes. And always, he wakes with a shuddered gasp. 

The good thing about being frozen in cryo, is that he doesn’t dream. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t remember. He’s just... in a state of nothing. And it’s always easier to be nothing than to be in pain.

He’s not sure how much time had passed. He looks around the empty room, filled with assorted instruments and medical technology, all foreign to his eyes and unlike anything HYDRA had ever used on him. In fact, it’s unlike anything he’s ever seen. And he knows it’s because Wakanda developed as an isolationist country, which only recently had opened its doors to outsiders. The advancement of Wakanda’s technology is testament to the nation’s brilliance and power. He has to admit he’s curious about the country known to be the most technologically advanced society in the world.

He slowly sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The only source of light in the room comes through a glass pane on the far wall. Beyond it, he sees a few men working away on their holographic monitors, probably keeping an eye on him, as their king had asked. 

He carefully jumps off the bed, his feet landing silently on the floor. He feels much stronger now after his rest. He slowly walks through the doorway, afraid the scientists on guard may be all too aware of the danger they harbor. But the men are kind to him. They speak in careful English. One of them fetches water and a meal for him, and the other grabs casual clothes for him to change into. 

He’s definitely not used to being waited on hand and foot. Afterwards, he is sure to thank them. They tell him he’s free to explore the palace. Any areas off limits will be quite clear to him. 

So he explores a bit. It’ll feel good not being locked away in an enclosed room. He knows the palace is separated from the main city, all of which is surrounded by beautiful African jungle. Rivers run throughout and around the city. He’s not sure if it’s wise for him to leave the palace. A white man, with a missing arm, he’s sure to stick out like a sore thumb. Plus he has no money, he doesn’t know the language, nor does he have any sense of how customs work in such a different country. He finds himself aching for a familiar face.

But surely T’Challa, being the reigning king of a sovereign state, doesn’t have time to hang out with the recovering, brainwashed assassin he’s hiding in his country. 

Bucky goes looking for him anyway.

He doesn’t find him at first. But eventually he wanders into the jungles behind the palace, where something else quickly catches his attention. In his time as the Winter Soldier, he’s trained enough men and women to immediately be drawn to the sounds of a fight. His keen, enhanced hearing leads him to an open field surrounded by the African jungle on one side, and a rushing river on the other. In the far distance he hears the sound of a raging waterfall. It’s immediately apparent to him that he’s stumbled upon a training ground for warriors. He knows enough about Wakanda to know they have an exceptional military force. What he didn’t know, is that they’re all women.

Silently he slips closer, careful to stay hidden behind the trees as he watches. They spar in groups of two with staffs. One of them--she must be the leader--watches her fellow warriors with a sharp eye. There’s about two dozen of them. The sounds of staffs hitting each other, hitting flesh, flesh hitting flesh, and grunts of exertion echo loudly into the air. They fight with a beautiful ferocity that Bucky has seen in very few people in his time. Whereas the Black Widow’s fighting style is full of graceful acrobatics, these women are swift and brutal, with moves more similar to what he faced against the Black Panther. He remembers how that turned out for him. 

He watches in awe, there’s something more to these women. The Black Widow was born from a lifetime of training, but even that doesn’t compare to the sheer strength and ferocity of these women. And it doesn’t take long for his presence to be noticed.

The motions stop nearly all at once. Slowly, all eyes turn to him. He swallows nervously under each gaze. The one who was present when he was defrosted, who stood behind her king glaring at him with dark, dangerous eyes, she’s there as well. “I’m--I’m sorry,” he stutters as he steps out from behind the tree. “Am I interrupting?” He feels like an idiot for asking, because clearly he is. 

The leader steps forward. “What are you doing here?” Her voice is strong and stern, untrusting.

“Um... admiring, I guess?” He says nervously. “I’ve trained a lot of people in my day, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

His answer doesn’t seem to offend her, he considers this a step in the right direction. She raises her chin in pride. “We are the Dora Milaje, the king’s personal guard, and the head of the Wakandan military.”

“You’re good, really good. I’ve uh--I’ve known another group of female fighters--Russian, actually. But from what little I’ve seen, I think you’d put them to shame.” 

She smirks at him, and continues to speak in accented English. “You’d be right. I am Okoye. This is Nakia,” she gestures her head towards the woman next to her. “I believe you two have already met.”

Bucky nods at the familiar face. She only glares in return. “You don’t like me much, do you?” He asks.

Okoye answers for her. “We don’t like outsiders in Wakanda. You are here only by our majesty’s good graces. You’d do well not to forget that, Barnes.”

“I won’t,” he says softly.

Okoye’s face softens slightly. “Would you like to spar?” She throws her staff at him before he has a chance to answer, which he catches just in time. 

“Uh...” He stares down at the staff in his hand before looking back up. “I’m kind of at a disadvantage, wouldn’t you say?” He tilts his head to the left towards his blatantly missing arm.

Okoye smirks at him. “That’s why I gave you the staff.”

His eyes widen as she charges at him. He twists to dodge her first strike, raises the staff just in time to block her next. It’s awkward and strange fighting with a single arm. He’s off balance and he has to move quickly to compensate. For the first time, he misses the limb that HYDRA had given him. But he’s quick on his feet, and manages to turn towards the open space to avoid being cornered against the trees. Years of training quickly kick in--just like riding a bike--and he somehow regains old footing.

She strikes again, he ducks his head, lifts his leg to block her kick. He twirls the staff in his hands, flips gracefully in the air, and manages to strike her swiftly in the abdomen. He thinks that would slow her down, but in his distraction, she manages to land a punch right in his temple. He stumbles back in shock, and has to shake his head to clear the stars. He honestly didn’t think such a small woman could hit that hard. He doesn’t let his defenses down after that. But as the adrenaline courses through him, the ache fades from his bones, and he feels _good._

He manages to block most of the hits, but this woman is relentless. She tires, but not as quickly as he’d like. And then, one good hit is all it takes to knock the staff out of his hand. Then he’s blocking with everything he’s got. He swings, she pulls to the side and his fist strikes her shoulder. But then she crouches, a good kick of her leg knocks him clean off his feet. He grunts as the air is expelled from his lungs. In a second she’s on top of him with his arm twisted behind his back. 

“Ahh! Ow!” He yelps. And she loosens her grip a bit. “What are you, trying to tear my arm off? I’ve only got one!”

She chuckles on top of him, swings her leg over and rises, and holds out a hand which he gratefully takes. He feels the strength of her pull as she helps him to his feet. 

“Damn.” He rolls his shoulder a bit once he’s on his feet. “You know you’re a lot stronger than you look.”

“Don’t underestimate us,” Okoye replies pointedly.

“Noted. I guess I’m a bit out of practice.”

She grins at him. “Come back when you’ve got settled with your new arm. You’ll still end up on the ground.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh. He hasn’t had much opportunity for light hearted banter in a long while. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says gently. “Um, I uh--I was actually looking for T’Challa. Do you know where I might find him?”

Okoye raises an elegant eyebrow and narrows her eyes at him. 

“His--his majesty,” Bucky quickly adds.

“On the other side of the palace,” she eventually says. “Head towards the western forest. You’ll see a path. You may find him there.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you.” He picks up the fallen staff and hands it to Okoye before giving them a quick nod and heading back in the direction he came.

He follows the path, all the while admiring the beauty of the African jungle. It’s definitely not the type of environment he’s used to. But that’s not a bad thing. A change in scenery may be just what he needs. With the warm air in his lungs and a slight bounce to his step, he feels better than he could have hoped for.

Eventually he happens upon a clearing. And in the center he sees a stone monument nearly twice his height, made of beautiful black marble. On either side of the stone are two large black panther statues, ferocious, deadly, and regal. Sitting before the monument is a familiar figure.

He steps closer. Though his footsteps are silent, he knows T’Challa is aware of his presence. As he approaches, he can see beautiful characters etched into the stone. He can’t read the script, but he knows exactly what this is. 

Slowly, he steps forward until he’s merely a few feet away. He can’t help but feel he’s interrupting a personal moment. “I’m sorry about your father,” he says softly. It seems such a horribly useless thing to say. An innocent man was killed to fuel a fight between two men, all for another man’s vengeance. 

“Time makes it easier,” T’Challa says without turning to look at him. But he does pat the spot next to him. “Sit.”

Bucky takes a seat next to the other man on the ground. A moment of silence passes between them. “You’ll never stop missing him,” he says softly. “You’ll always have that ache in your heart, remembering what was taken from you. Time won’t take that away.”

“You speak like a man who knows loss well.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. “I guess I do.”

T’Challa finally turns to watch him. His eyes are soft as he silently welcomes the other man to continue. 

“I’ve pretty much lost everyone, I guess. Except for Steve. But that’s a whole other can of worms. Um... my parents. I uh--I had a sister. Rebecca.” A soft smile spreads on his face at the thought of her. “It took me weeks to remember her name,” he whispers. “I kept seeing her face in my head. She was just a little girl, just a kid. I didn’t know who she was, I just kept seeing her face. Smiling, laughing, crying... I knew I loved her. And finally, one day I remembered. Her name was Rebecca.”

“Is she still alive?” T’Challa asks.

Bucky doesn’t answer. But he swallows and glances down into his lap. That says more than enough. 

“I hope you can see her, while you still have the chance.”

He shakes his head. “She’s in her eighties now.” As more of his memories came back, it all fit together like pieces of a puzzle. The empty spaces slowly, painstakingly filled in. And he began to really remember who he was.  _Son. Brother. Sergeant. Friend._ Eventually, he looked up Rebecca Barnes, born 1926. It was Rebecca Barnes-Proctor now. She lived a long life. Got married, had kids, then grandkids. He wonders if she’d seen the news, and knows what’s become of her lost brother. He prays that she doesn’t know. 

“She wouldn’t want to see me,” he finally says. “I’m not the guy she knew. And besides, I want her to remember me as her brave brother who went off to war, to serve his country. I don’t want her to see what I’ve become. She’s lived a good life. I don’t want to ruin what’s left of it.”

A moment of silence passes between them. Bucky stares at the ground, while T’Challa’s eyes stare up at the monument that is his father’s final resting place. Neither of them mind the silence, and instead they’re simply grateful for the company.

“I have a little sister,” T’Challa eventually says. He turns to Bucky with a small smile on his lips. “Her name is Shuri. Perhaps you can meet her. She’s a sweet girl. You’d like her.”

Bucky returns the grin, and is suddenly reminded that once again T’Challa has shown him kindness when most of the world wants to see him dead. It’s a kindness that he doesn’t expect, especially given what the man has lost. “I uh... I never properly thanked you. You didn’t have to help me. Especially after losing your father. You didn’t have to give me a place to stay, fix my head, and my arm... you certainly didn’t have to be so nice to me.” He swallows nervously and finds an unreadable expression on the other man’s face. “I uh... I’m sorry I was so rude earlier. I just... I’m just not used to it, I guess. I guess I--I want to say thank you, for everything... your majesty.”

T’Challa’s grin widens and he chuckles softly. “Finally, you remember your manners.”

Bucky bows his head sheepishly. “I’ve never been around a king before. Forgice me.” 

Though he’s not ashamed to admit he initially had a strong distrust of the man when he first offered to help. But being on his own for two years, hiding and running from the world, from _Steve,_ paranoia and distrust had been what kept him alive. Now though, he finds T’Challa’s presence comforting.

“I met the Dora Milaje,” Bucky says, the pain in his shoulder had long faded, but he won’t be forgetting the formidable opponent he faced for a long time. “I’ve met a lot of tough fighters in my life. But they are something else. She nearly twisted my arm off with her bare hands.”

T’Challa nods, pride clear on his face at the mention of his warriors. “They are a force to be reckoned with. The greatest fighters Wakanda has to offer. Save for their king, of course.”

“I had more than enough first hand experience of that,” Bucky jokes.

“I’m glad I didn’t hurt you, Barnes.” T’Challa says softly. 

“Call me Bucky.”

Their eyes meet once again, before T’Challa accepts his request. “Bucky.”

They both turn their eyes forward. Bucky admires the beauty of the stone and the statues. It’s a glorious monument, beautiful, and fit for a king. Though he’s sure T’Challa only sees pain when he looks at it, and not beauty. 

“My father believed that death is not the end. He believed that when you die, the gods take you away to a better place. I hope that is true. I hope my father is at peace. I come here to feel close to him. Sometimes I speak to him. Sometimes I just sit in silence. I am not sure I believe he is listening.” He pauses to glance over at the other man. “But it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

Bucky nods silently as the other man continues. “My father’s death was... sudden. I had never imagined that I would have to take on such responsibility so soon. But I want to be a good king for my people. Sometimes... it feels like I’m not able... to live up to the legacy he left behind. I come here sometimes to ask my father for advice. I wonder if he is watching me, listening... I wonder if he sees my mistakes, and what he would think of me.”

“He’d be proud of you,” Bucky says softly. “You avenged your father’s death. You had the compassion and sense to realize it’d do more good to have his killer alive than dead. You spared the man’s life, and you did the right thing. You’ve done right by your father... and me. And I don’t know the first thing about running a country, but... from the looks of things, you’re doing a pretty good job.”

“You are right,” T’Challa says, a wry grin on his lips. “You don’t know the first thing about running a country.”

Bucky snorts. “I’m sorry, I--”

“No, I’m just kidding. Truth be told, it’s nice talking to someone who doesn’t have expectations of me. Since my father’s death, everyday I speak to advisors, counselors, leaders... all of whom expect me to be a king. Sometimes... sometimes I just want to mourn my father’s death, without carrying the weight of what he left behind.”

“I know a little something about expectations,” Bucky murmurs. “It must be a tough burden to bear. I can barely take care of myself. I can’t imagine taking care of a whole country.” 

They sit in silence for a while longer. Bucky feels the sun on his back, and the warmth is nice. There is little space between them. He can’t recall the last time he truly felt comfortable in another person’s presence. 

“I have to go back soon. More meetings to attend.”

Bucky nods. He’ll stay as long as T’Challa chooses to. And then they’ll walk back to the palace together.

**Author's Note:**

> [x](http://winters-blue-children.tumblr.com)


End file.
